Personality Disorder (s)

My daughter sang a song at school last year entitled “Germs (My Invisible Dog)” Here are some of the lyrics:

“….I hide him in my pocket cause he’s very, very small
Germs, Germs, my invisible dog
He runs like the wind, and he knows some funny tricks
He doesn’t like carrots and spinach makes him sick
He loves cotton candy and purple lemonade
Oreo cookies and yellow Gatorade
I hide him in my pocket cause he’s very, very small”
Germs, Germs, my invisible dog

When my daughter first sang the song to me, I did not respond like a normal mother. I did not tell her how cute it was or how funny it sounded; instead, I put on my serious tone and used the words to reinforce all of my lessons on hand washing, taking vitamins and eating vegetables. My daughter never sang me the song again.

I have a bit of a germ phobia (although my husband would take out the “bit of”). Last year my daughter was invited to a birthday party at Chuck-E-Cheese. My poor child was the only one who brought in a birthday present AND a bottle of hand sanitizer.

My son just turned six and we threw him a movie themed birthday party. I set up the table with a red tablecloth, a real popcorn machine, paper plates, soda, and, of course, in the picture above you will notice a huge bottle of hand-sanitizer. No party is right without it.

Yes, I’m the crazy mom that takes out the anti-bacterial wipes and sanitizes the seats on the plane the few times we’ve flown with the kid.

I am, however, working on this. Instead of saying “no” to the mall’s indoor, germ-infested, come and play and go home sick, play ground, I reluctantly give in and merely shower them with Lysol when their finished. I’m sensing improvement in this area.

I’m also working on another personality weakness – my lack of empathy. I’m not a naturally empathetic person. When my husband gets sick, he goes to his room, closes the door, and he knows not to come out again until all is well…literally. Every-once-in a while I will speak through the crack in the bottom of the door, just to make sure he’s alive.

And I don’t expect sympathy in return – I really don’t. In fact, right before our company arrived last night, my back almost went out. I literally collapsed on the kitchen floor and for the next fifteen minutes, my family walked around (and over) me, going on with business as usual (except for my son who took one look at me, noticed I was helpless, and quick grabbed a cookie out of the pantry).

This lack of empathy can be blamed on one thing and one thing only – my childhood. My parents were good at so many things, but sympathizing with us was not one of them. My dad would often remind me that “Life’s tough. So buck up.”

In Kindergarten, I was playing on the playground with a friend. At one point, I told her to push me off a bouncy bridge so that I could “feel what it’s like to fly” (this is another whole story). My friend agreed and then she pushed me. Not only was it not what I expected, but when I landed, I heard a crack. The teacher called my mom, and my mom brought me home. For one whole week (this is kindergarten, mind you) I was told to “walk it off.” Finally, when I was literally crawling to the kitchen for breakfast, they took me to the doctor. And yes, my foot was broken, and I was in a cast for months.

I only missed one day of high school for being sick. In fact, I was playing in basketball games after a full day of school while I had bronchial pneumonia. Needless to say, sympathy was not an area that I was groomed in growing up.

Every once in a while, my germ phobia and lack of empathy comes to a head. This morning, at five a.m. to be exact, I had one of those moments. My daughter, Ella, had a big part in her classes chapel program. She doesn’t talk much, but for three weeks I have heard every detail of the second grade skit. Ella had even been sleeping with the script.

Today was the big chapel day and she woke up sick. With tears in her eyes, she looked at me shaking and said “but I’m still going to chapel, right?” In that moment, I could do nothing else by lay next to my germ-infested daughter, breathing in all of her coughs and putting my arms around her little shaking body. And I cried with her. We talked about how God is in control and how there will be other plays. I sat with her until she dozed off.

When I walked out, I considered something. There are very few people in our lives that can, in an instant, change our personalities. But when it comes to my children, I can go from a dignified woman to a tea-drinking princess. I can transform from a productive housewife to a one-eyed pirate. And I can even change from a germ-feared, non-sympathetic person to a no gloves on, crying mom. Kid’s tend to force these changes in us. And, well, most of the time, it’s a good thing.